


What Happens in Brooklyn

by logolepskay



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24403315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logolepskay/pseuds/logolepskay
Summary: Race gets into a fight with a few Brooklyn boys, and Spot plays doctor to get him fixed up.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins, Sprace - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	What Happens in Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> words: 1,509
> 
> warnings: mentions of blood and wounds (NOT explicit or graphic), light swearing,
> 
> !!everyone featured in this fanfiction is 18+ unless specifically stated otherwise!!
> 
> i hope you enjoy 💓 feedback/constructive criticism is and always will be accepted, but hate will always be blocked
> 
> (by proceeding, you understand and accept the warnings previously provided)

Spot raised a warm, damp rag to the split skin of Race’s forehead, but his hand was smacked away merely moments after.

“‘ey! Would you relax? Jeez, ‘m tryin’ to help ya.”

“I don’t need help,” He began. “I know where it hurts, I can do it myself!”

“Fine,” he dropped the rag into the other boy’s lap, turned his back on him. “Do it yourself.” Race cleaned himself up a bit and, soon, Spot could hear the tearing of fabric. He turned back around just as Race bit into the bottom of his own flannel. He tore off a strip and used it to try and wrap up his knuckles, but struggled to do it on his own. He fumbled with it for a couple more seconds before letting out a hefty sigh, looking to Spot with a sense of defeat in his eyes.

“Whatchya gawkin’ at me for?”

“I need help...” he spoke, voice small.

“Ohh,” Spot replied, somewhat amused as he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back against the wall behind him. A few moments of silence passed before Race spoke again.

“Well, ‘r’you gunna?”

“I don’t know, Race,” he beamed. “You tell me.” He let out a sigh.

“Can you just help me?” With his tongue, Spot pushed his bottom lip out and to the left, raised his brows. Race groaned. “Please?” Finally, he stepped forward.

“You even clean this ‘fore you tried wrappin’ it up?” Spot questioned. When Racer didn’t respond, Spot chuckled to himself, despite the fact that he wasn’t amused. “Unhh-uh, we’re cleanin’ this up. And why’d you rip your shirt, huh? Perfectly good shirt you just ruined.”

“It’s cut and bloody anyway.” Race said with a shrug. Spot looked at him, confused. “Your boys?”

“Really now?”

“Oh, don’t act surprised.”

“I am! They know how I feel ‘bout that—a blade against an unarmed kid? It ain’t fair—I don’t stand for that. I’m real sorry they did that to you.” Race didn’t say anything as Spot ducked into the closet to find some hydrogen peroxide to clean his split knuckles.

“Alright,” he came back out, bottle in hand and stopped in front of the boy slouched on the table. “Gimme your hand.” Race looked at him with worry in his eyes. “Look, it’ll sting like a bitch, but it’s gotta be done—it’ll only get worse if it’s not.” Reluctantly, he slipped his hand into Spot’s. Spot tried not to acknowledge just how soft and (surprisingly) small his hand was, how effortlessly it seemed to fit in his own as he raised the bottle; Race tried not to acknowledge how warm his calloused hand felt cradling his own, how perfect it looked with a single ring taking home on his middle finger as Spot began to pour. He winced as the liquid washed over his knuckles, gasped through his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, and balled his hand into a fist, enclosing the tips of Spot’s fingers within his palm.

“‘s okay, the worst part’s nearly through.” With a dampened rag, he dabbed around Race’s wounded knuckles. “If you’d relax, it’d hurt less.” He said calmly, setting aside the cloth and lightly kneading the skin of Race’s palm and wrist to help rid the tension. When he finally relaxed, Spot took a smaller rag—a fresh one—and a roll of gauze, then started wrapping his hand.

“Alright, let’s see that stab wound.” Blood had already soaked through his light flannel.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Lemme do what I can, Race. Ain’t no harm in gettin’ help.”

“I’ll be  _ fine,  _ Spot, I can— _ hey! _ ” Buttons went flying as Spot tore open the flannel, shoved it down passed his shoulders. “The hell is your problem?”

“It’s cut and bloody anyway!” He mocked and Race scowled at him.

“You’re such an ass,”

“Hold still, I’m trynna look at it.” A beat...

“You’re gettin’ awful close.”

“Would you shut up?”

“You don’t gotta be that close to see it!”

“I’m makin’ sure there ain’t nothing up in there—somethin’ that’ll keep it from healing proper.”

“And?”

“And nothing, it’s fine.”

“Told ya.”

“I’m still cleanin it up though,”

“Spot, it’s fine, I’ll be—“ Spot pushed him back into the table and started working, despite Race’s attempts to squirm away.

As much as he hated to admit it, his head was spinning and his skin was tingling from Spot’s touch. He wanted more… felt like he needed it, or he’d go crazy. So, as Spot went to pull his hands away, Race pitifully pleaded. 

“Please,” He spoke in a voice so small, so hushed, that he was surprised Spot heard him at all. His hands came to a halt in their place just below his ribs and Spot glanced up, first with his eyes, filled with terror, then with his entire face a second later.

“What? What’d I touch? You okay?” It wasn’t a secret—how madly in love Racetrack Higgins was with Spot Conlon, but the latter of the two seemed oblivious to the fact. 

“Don’t… don’t stop doin’ that,” His own voice shocked him, but not nearly as much as Spot’s hands on his skin did. He lifted his eyes to meet Spot’s gaze. A gentle crimson flooded Spot’s cheeks as he found himself, for once, speechless. He was in a state of complete and utter shock; he was almost afraid to move. And so, the King of Brooklyn averted his eyes. Racer thought he’d be tossed to the curb in seconds, or even killed on the spot. It’s not like he hadn't already begun digging his own grave… but, he did have to admit, if he were to die tonight with the last man to ever touch him being Spot Conlon? He wouldn’t be disappointed in the slightest. 

When he felt Spot’s fingers twitch, he looked down, and at the most agonizingly slow pace in the world, his hands resumed their motion over his torso; his palms flattened against Racer’s skin and started to roam around his stomach, then to his hips and back up, working their way up his torso. They slid over his bandage and grazed his nipples every so lightly, then moved in gentle circles over his pecs before continuing upwards to his shoulders, kneading the skin just ever so gently.

Race followed Spot’s hands with his eyes and bit the inside of his bottom lip in a desperate attempt to hold back a needy whine. Spot moved one hand to rest at the nape of his neck while the other moved to grip onto his hip, and he helped him sit upright. He combed his fingers gently through Racer’s hair, and the boy leaned into his touch. He let his eyes flutter closed, and Spot took this opportunity to lean forward, bury his lips into the crook of his neck. 

As soon as Spot’s mouth made contact with Race’s skin, the whine he had been trying so hard to fight back escaped his lips, making Spot’s curl up into a smile. He kissed and nipped at his neck while his hands dropped to rest on Race’s knees, pushing them apart so he could fit himself between his legs. And when he did, a pair of trembling hands tangled through his hair and gripped.  _ Hard _ . Spot lost it. 

He bit down upon Race’s neck, earning a wince and a hiss from him as he did and Race’s head fell back. Spot soothed the pain by running his tongue along the surface of the bite, then moved further up to kiss just below his ear before taking his lobe between his teeth and suckling gently.

“fffffuck, Conlon.” Race breathed, gripping a little harder. “Just kiss me already, you fool,” In an instant, Spot crashed their lips together, and a fire ignited low in Race’s stomach. The hands that rested upon his hips wrapped tightly around his middle as Spot pulled him impossibly closer. As he lifted him from his place on the table, he wrapped his legs around Spot’s waist. He turned and flopped him onto an old couch, earning a light grunt from the curly headed boy. 

\-----

Race had never before remembered feeling more physically uncomfortable in his entire life. But with a stupid grin plastered on his kiss-swollen lips and his cheeks aglow with a gentle crimson, he couldn’t find himself to care. The weight upon his chest rose and fell with steady breaths, creating a very warm feeling on his own skin, reminding him of something similar to home. Maybe it was the smell of cigarettes and new books—smoke and papes—that seemed to follow Spot wherever he went. Still, Race adored it. It was soothing, in its own way. 

He could feel Spot’s heartbeat seeping through into his own chest, and it calmed him even more so, for in this specific moment in time… nothing could harm them.

Gently, softly, carefully, Race lifted his head and leaned forward to place a kiss to Spot’s mop of hair, and he lightly stirred, readjusting himself in the slightest, inching himself closer before settling once again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned for more!


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